Night at my children’s school did not go as planned

It was supposed to be a normal evening at my son’s elementary school in Walnut Creek. I was watching my three young boys, one at soccer practice, the other two on the playground.

It was one of those fall California evenings that make you glad you don’t live anywhere else: blue sky and crisp air, with a chill that reminds you the seasons are changing.

But this Thursday evening didn’t go according to plan. At about 6:40 p.m., we heard it: the sound of crashing metal, breaking glass, collision after collision after collision.

We looked toward the 8-foot brick wall separating the Murwood Elementary School playground from South Broadway, a busy road where there had just been a four- car crash. Standing in the soccer field, my son saw pieces of metal fly in the air. Others heard screaming.

Everyone on the field stopped and stared at the wall. Several coaches jumped over to see if they could help. On the other side of the wall, someone was hurt, perhaps even dying. On our side of the wall, there was a soccer field, a jungle gym and a swing set.

The sirens came more quickly than I expected. The team now gathered, I mentioned to a few of them about how impressive it was that the police, fire trucks and ambu- lances arrived as fast as they did. I reminded them to wear their seat belts. I wanted them to know that there was some protection in this world, both in the way they acted, and the way adults responded.

As we walked off the field, the sun was close to setting. The area beyond the wall — filled at this point by emergency personnel — emitted a red, eerie glow. To be sure, this was a sign of order, responsiveness and protection.

I never thought my children’s first encounter with death would come on an elementary school playground. Each of them mentioned it as the night wore on. My youngest said how much the sound hurt his ears; my middle child said he would tell his friends; my oldest wrote in his journal that he hoped the people would be “alive and all right.”

As the night wore on, my reassurances felt hollow. Sometimes seat belts aren’t enough. Response time will not bring back a life once lost. Preparation is sometimes no match for chance. There was no good reason why a father and his young daughter were driving in a car that Thursday night and never made it home.

We tell our children that they will be safe — assurances we offer as much to ourselves as to them. Yet, I held my boys tighter that night — knowing that we each must face the darkness at some point, but that we should hold onto each other as tightly as we can in the meantime.

When I was in high school, I was involved in two serious car accidents, where the difference between life and death was a matter of seconds. As a teenager trying to make sense of it all, I came across a quote from Virgil: “Death twitches my ear. ‘Live,’ he says … ‘I am coming.’ ”

Now, as a parent, I have a heartfelt reply to Death, on the other side of that wall: I know you are coming, but please take your time.

Please.